Page 53 of Little Stranger

I think I’m taking the Halloween spirit too seriously. I’ll turn into a fucking vampire if I keep drinking her blood.

Pressing a kiss to her cunt, I slip my tongue through her hole and taste us both, then I suck a little on her clit and give it a chaste kiss.

Getting her on my bike is going to be a nuisance. I stand up, looking around, and when I spot a fence area near the road, I form a plan.

After covering Olivia’s body with fallen crops, I grab my mask and put it on halfway, then leave her in the cornfield and head back to the festival, grabbing a beer from one of the stalls while I walk to my bike. Smoking, I wait a few minutes before I drive up the side of the field, parking close enough that I’ll be able to carry her there safely.

I kick aside the corn and carry my unconscious sister to my bike, wanting to punch myself in the dick for not bringing my helmet to put on her. I keep her in front of me, my hand slipping down to touch her exposed pussy rubbing on my seat while I drive to an old farmhouse I bought a few weeks ago. Specifically for this moment with Olivia in my possession.

Surprisingly, she doesn’t fall off, and when I reach the dark, narrow road, I smile at the thought of all the fun we’re going to have here. Of the fear I’m going to instill in her when she realizes who’s kidnapped her.

My little captive for the foreseeable future. My darling Olivia.

You aren’t leaving here without me getting my revenge, you traitorous fucking bitch.

13

Malachi

Whydidherbiologicalmom need to give her such a difficult fucking name?

Out of the millions of names she could have chosen, she picked one with four goddamn syllables? Did she not think of all the people out there who would struggle? The ones who need speech therapists or just settle on using sign language?

If her mom wasn’t already dead, I’d kill her for calling her fucking Olivia.

I stare at the letters, tracing my finger over them. “O-liv-a,” I say, shaking my head. “O-lay-ve-a.”

I grit my teeth. Why the fuck can’t I say it properly? I know how to say her name, but when I try to sound out the letters, my tone shifts, and I fuck it up.

What if I shortened it? She thinks my name is Kai. My real name is Malachi, by the way, not Kai, but she thinks that. What if I called her Liv?

“Liv,” I say, grimacing. “Oli…via.”

Closer.

I sit up straight and puff my chest and try to say it all as one word. “Ol-i-vara.”

My confidence drops. Fuck off.

I scrunch up the paper, toss it in the trashcan, and light a cigarette, filling my lungs with the smoky poison while I watch my sister through my phone screen. She’s hanging from the basement ceiling, chains on each wrist, a collar around her throat, ankles shackled with a spreader keeping her legs apart. She looks beautiful in her little goth-bride costume with her panties shoved into her mouth.

She’s been hanging there for hours while I made sure our bedroom was ready. It is, and I can’t wait to share the bed with her.

I pull on a black balaclava, chewing on some gum as I look in the small, cracked mirror on the wall. She might recognize my eyes, so I put the gas mask over the top of the balaclava, slide my gloves on, and head down to the basement with a sandwich and glass of water.

My heart rate spikes when I open the door to the basement and see her, even though she’s out cold, her mascara and black lipstick smeared all over her pretty face.

I place the plate down and stand in front of her, tipping her chin back and pulling the panties from her mouth. She breathes, her eyes fluttering, and I smile at her—not that she can see me—and bring the glass of water to her lips.

She gulps down each drop, and I wipe my gloved thumb over her lips and down to the collar on her throat. I was going to attach her to my cock or my wrist, but I want to give her some free will, for her towantto come to our bedroom with me. Just not yet. She hasn’t earned it yet.

Her eyes open properly, and she sucks in air as the realization that she’s chained up and stuck in place hits. “What the fuck?” she croaks. She looks down at her legs, at the spreader keeping them wide open. “Let me go!”

I shake my head and gather the sandwich in my hand, bringing it to her mouth. “Eat,” I demand. “It’s… good.”

I clear my throat, annoyed with myself for fumbling a little on my words. She clamps her mouth shut, so I pinch her nose and shove the sandwich in when she finally parts her lips for air.

You need to eat, darling sister, or this will end sooner than planned. You need to stay healthy, hydrated, and well fed, while I make you suffer for stealing eight years from me.

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